


a bench on the cliffs

by fluffynarwhal



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: It's not all dark I swear, M/M, Mentions of Sexual Content, Soulmates, but only when it was convenient, death does not equal suicide in this, death is mentioned but as a being, i followed some of the canon timeline, keep an open mind, lifetimes of bucky barnes, no matter what body they're in they'll always be soulmates, please trust me on this, steve will always be bucky's soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25780066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffynarwhal/pseuds/fluffynarwhal
Summary: After a long while, the sun finally set beyond what James’ sight could reach and a chill began to set. He turned to Death and nodded once before pulling himself to his feet. His bones creaked and his muscles ached, but he was ready.“Let’s go home,” she repeated, a smile just barely hinting on her face.And so James went. He went with Death and returned to their home.And then he woke up again.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	a bench on the cliffs

**Author's Note:**

> omg okay so 
> 
> This is the first time I'm venturing into Steve/Bucky. I've not been in the fandom for very long, but I had inspiration hit last night (I started new meds and ate an entire jar of pickles while writing the outline) so YAY. I had a moment where I was thinking about soulmates, and pickles having soulmates in their lifetime and boom, here you go 
> 
> a few notes for the work:  
> I follow the canon timeline when I feel like it, so don't get your hopes up too much.  
> I created Death in this situation as an actual being, the creator of all things. Try to keep an open mind when reading.  
> In the first section, it's mentioned how Bucky is the first soul Death created, and he's given the gift of being able to remember all of his lifetimes. Every soul Death created after Bucky forgets their lifetime until they meet their true soulmate, and their past lives are remembered. 
> 
> this isn't beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. please let me know if there are any errors or mistakes that need fixing. 
> 
> happy reading! 
> 
> xoxoxo

The first time James stared Death in the face while on earth, he told her, “Go fuck yourself.” His first lifetime was not what he expected. He went quickly.

The second time, James sneered and lunged for her, kicking and screaming himself hoarse, throat feeling like he swallowed a white-hot branding iron. He spit in her face and thrashed in her arms, yelling – screaming for her to go away. She did nothing but tighten her grip on his body until he felt his limbs go numb, chest wheezing out a final growl. His young body was still growing but ceased to exist under her strength. His short, second lifetime was beautiful and colorful, and he resented her for making him leave it behind.

It continued, century after century, time after time. James’ anger would bleed into rage and then into blind fury. He knew that Death could see his sadness, could see his anger and frustration. She could see the way he wanted so badly to have a different ending, to try again and succeed. She could see how much James hated living lifetimes of solidarity; his own mind and his heartbeat to keep him company.

But she could also see when his lifetimes were well-lived. She could see the splashes of pink and orange and white dancing in his eyes every time he blinked. She could see his families, his children bounding through cities and gardens and backyards, hanging paintings of themselves with sunshine in their smiles. She could see when he wanted nothing more than to stay within that lifetime.

Death could see the fear in James’ eyes when she’d finally come to collect him, sometimes with a frown and sometimes with a sneer. But she kept collecting him off of bedroom floors, back alleyways, restaurant bathrooms, gas station parking lots, nursing home mattresses – she always came to collect him, even on the battlefield once.

The 42nd time James saw Death she stood against a doorway and shook her head at him. She knew he put up a fight in going with her. He had managed to go two full days until she was finally called in, starving off the inevitable for as long as he could.

James simply sighed, resigned to his fate, and dropped the picture of his family he was holding. He stood from where he sat on the ground and hobbled over to her, breath labored and weary with his old age. She smiled softly, albeit grimly, and rested her palm against his cheek. She patted his skin softly and traced a line of freckles with her nails, across wrinkles and sunspots and scars. He hummed into the cool feeling of her palm. It was peace, a peace he was thankful for.

James stepped closer and into her arms, hugging around her middle. Death let him crowd into her space and placed a hand on the back of his head, fingers carding through thin grey hair. “Let’s go home, my son,” she whispered softly. “Let me take you back to our home.”

“Allow me to see my cliffs just once more,” he begged, “and then I will come home.”

Death nodded and released him, offering her arm. James took it and began the trek out of his home, a brick cottage he built himself to fit his family of eight. He led her through the home, trailing his wrinkled finger over the back of the sofa, the pictures, paintings of his daughters, his army uniform, his wife’s wedding band. Every memory he had made in that lifetime. He passed his wife’s chair and lingered for a moment. Kissing the pads of three fingers, James touched the old worn leather and called her scent to his memory. He felt his eyes sting.

James took Death along the gravel path to his bench. It overlooked the beautiful cliffs of the sea. He could see miles from his perch, see birds dip down into the water, a whale or two when the season permitted it. His wife loved to sit with him once their children left the home to start their own lives. The two of them would dream up realities where they could walk across the sea to dance with whales and fish and birds along the waves.

He sat down gingerly and pulled Death down next to him. She hummed as a breeze caught her hair and pulled it away from her shoulders.

“You lived a very beautiful life,” Death told him.

“I was happy here,” James replied. “My daughters told me I was too old a soul for this lifetime.”

Death sighed. “You have been on earth for many lifetimes. Your soul is as old and wrinkly as you are.” She was still as witty as James remembered.

“My lifetimes are brighter when I find my soulmate,” he said. “They make our visits worth something. Sometimes, I like to believe that when you fetch me for the final time, I’ll be with them for the rest of eternity. No more waking up, no more searching. We’d sit and remember all of our lifetimes together, even the lifetimes where we didn’t find each other.”

Death seemed to think it over for a moment. She blinked and squared her shoulders with a promise. “When you are ready for your final lifetime, I will be sure to let you rest.” 

James didn’t respond, just let the breeze carry his voice away with the waves and currents as he smiled. He reached over and took Death’s hand, setting it on his leg as they watched the sea.

She explained it to James once, before he was sent to earth for the first time. Death told him that as her first born soul, he would remember each and every lifetime he was given, while others would forget. (James thought it was absurd, but Death assured him that he was the lucky one. All the other souls would come to remember their past lives with their soulmates when the time came, so James learned to accept it.) He’d be given a soulmate, a match made specifically for his own soul. When James found them, he would feel it in his bones, their deep connection. She said that when he finally located the soulmate of his final lifetime, they would come to remember James, in every form he lived. They’d recall each second of their time spent together.

After a long while, the sun finally set beyond what James’ sight could reach and a chill began to set. He turned to Death and nodded once before pulling himself to his feet. His bones creaked and his muscles ached, but he was ready.

“Let’s go home,” she repeated, a smile just barely hinting on her face.

And so James went. He went with Death and returned to their home.

And then he woke up again.

*

James was only a child when he felt a pull, a gravitational force yanking him over to where a scrawny, blond headed kid was laying on the concrete in an alley. The boy’s nose was busted and bloody, a bruise was blooming on his cheekbone, and James felt the weight of the world force his feet to carry him into the alley. The boy refused his help at first, claiming he could take care of himself just fine. That was the first time James recognized the pull in his gut as such a young age.

It was surprising, being able to locate his soulmate so quickly. James remembered the lifetimes when he’d be no younger than 25, glancing into a window and seeing them purchase eggs or sewing thread, strolling along an orchard with their intended, and even being a nurse as she gave him a shot to prepare for the war. He knew his body. He knew his voice. He knew the rules of the time.

He was never a child, still learning his new body and where he fit in. James was never this inexperienced, still growing into his hands and ears. But there he was, staring at his soulmate, the first time in a boy’s body. It was the first time his given name was overlooked, the boy, _Steve_ , calling him Bucky instead.

Bucky, a name he’d carry with him for years to come, did his very best to implant himself in Steve’s life for as long as Steve would let him. And he became a constant figure in Steve’s life, even when Steve became so sick, he couldn’t walk – couldn’t breathe without having a coughing fit or fighting until he was bruised and broken. Bucky spent his childhood and early teenage years at Steve’s bedside, coaxing him to drink the broth he could afford and the juice that was still within expiration dates, setting broken noses and icing split lips. He’d sit with his best friend for hours on end until he had to go to one of his jobs, humming along to the songs on the radio that was set up in the boy’s room.

The time period was different; yes, it was another lifetime he spent in a new world, a new society – but it was having to hide how he felt about Steve that made him crazy. More times than not, Bucky would find himself reaching out for Steve as they walked to the grocery store, but yank his hand back at the last second and shove his friend slightly to brush it off, just because he’d heard stories about men who loved other men. There was even someone who was beaten in a bar because he went to bed with another man. It was brutal, and Bucky couldn’t let that happen to his Steve, his _soulmate_.

Beggars can’t be choosers, after all, and Bucky took what he could get, whether that meant watching over Steve for the remainder of his life or not. He was content either way.

And then Bucky was drafted – at least, that’s what he told Steve – and he was whisked away to fight in another war.

*

Bucky didn’t see Death while he was in combat, and he didn’t see her when he and his battalion were captured. 

He thought she would come, rescue him from the testing, from the prodding, the constant pain in his body, from his own mind. But she never came to collect him. He wished she did. He wished she saved him from the torture, saved his men from their cells. Bucky wished for a lot of things.

Death didn’t save him, but a larger version of Steve Rogers did.

Huh. Bucky thought he was smaller.

*

There was a night that Bucky was almost sure of Death’s visit, but again, she didn’t show.

He was wound tight, holding Steve in his arms as he canted his hips forward, into the blinding heat of Steve’s body. He felt Steve’s heartbeat under his palm, warm and steady, while a snowstorm whipped around their tents. His other hand was placed over Steve’s mouth to muffle the whines and whimpers that threatened to expose their vulnerable position. Every thrust send a jolt of lightening up his spine, every slight adjustment under the warmth of their blankets brought Bucky that much closer. _God, Steve was going to kill him_.

Steve had an iron grip on Bucky’s hip. Every time Bucky thrust up Steve would dig his nails into his skin, whimpering around his fingers and edging up on their bedroll. Steve clenched and pushed back, meeting Bucky in each agonizing thrust. Bucky dropped the hand on Steve’s heart down to his cock, copying his strokes with his hips, watching as Steve tried to figure out whether he wanted to thrust up into Bucky’s hand, or back down on his cock. It took three more pulls before Steve spilled over Bucky’s hand, clenching and pushing Bucky over the edge himself.

It was hot, heady – the most beautiful place he’s ever known to be in his many lifetimes. In the raging snowstorm just beyond the layer of their tent, Bucky pulled Steve into his chest and kissed him, wiping off the sweat from his forehead. Steve huffed dopily and kissed him back with little effort.

It was the single greatest moment in Bucky’s current lifetime, and he was sure he was going to die.

What a way to go.

*

Death still didn’t visit Bucky the very next day when he fell – when he fell away from Steve.

*

The Winter Soldier didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t know the men in lab coats that moved around him like he was a bomb. He didn’t know why his arm was not that of flesh, and instead made of metal. He didn’t know why he was called ‘The Asset’. He didn’t know why he did the things he did, why he’d wake up and find himself in another time period with new faces surrounding him. He didn’t know a lot of things.

But he did know the man on the bridge, the man on the helicarrier, the man in the museum. The Soldier felt a pull in his gut, something far away and yet so familiar to him. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders when he looked at the Captain, a feeling that was nostalgic. It was embedded in his soul.

The Captain’s best friend, James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes, shared a somewhat similar face – younger and more refined than that of the Soldier.

The Soldier fled, escaping the states and flew to somewhere secluded, promising himself that he would never hurt the man on the bridge again.

On his journey, he destroyed each and every Hydra base he found, hoping to find something he lost. 

*

Sometimes Bucky would wake up in the morning with a memory. One of Steve, _his Steve_ , of his family, of his lifetimes. It took a very long time, morning settling into afternoon, before he finally let himself breathe again. He sifted through each second of what he could piece together and put it in categories for his lifetimes. Bucky also was able to figure out a pattern with planted memories that Hydra gave him, which helped the process.

There were days where Bucky was gone and the Soldier surfaced, planting himself in the bathroom of his small apartment, waiting for orders to come through. Those days took longer to come back from.

Bucky spent most of his time writing in a journal he stole, keeping track of the memories that came to him. He wrote down the time spent with Hydra, all the lives he took in a comprehensive list that he looked at often to remind him of his own wits. His summaries of his previous lifetimes were short and to the point, sparing details to save room, keeping mentions of Death to the absolute minimum. (He knew it was compromising if someone were to find his thoughts about her in any form, especially important people. People in that time period were quick to point an accusing finger.)

With Steve, however, Bucky wrote for what seemed like hours. He wrote down everything he could remember, every last detail that his mind could drum up. He finished the first journal in a matter of days.

One afternoon, Bucky knew something was wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge and his arm ached with something he couldn’t decipher. He found Steve in his apartment, the insistent pull in his gut telling him to run before he added another name to his list.

He tried his best to flee, he really did. Bucky wouldn’t let himself kill anyone else, hurt anymore innocent lives. He couldn’t hurt Steve.

In the end, even Steve couldn’t save him from the fucking words, couldn’t save Bucky from himself.

*

Bucky was so sure of Death coming for him when he fell to the concrete, metal arm blown to dust by Howard’s son. Instead of her, though, it was Steve who pulled him to his feet. Tony growled something that Bucky didn’t register, and Steve dropped his shield at his feet. Bucky wanted to wince at the sound, but could only focus on _steve steve steve steve_ –

He knew his mind was a fragile thing. He knew that he couldn’t trust it, and he couldn’t trust it around Steve and his team. Bucky chose to go back into the cryofreeze with a promise to Steve, and to himself, that he would be okay. He talked to Shuri about reconfiguration, and that was that.

Bucky wouldn’t let himself not be okay.

*

It took years before Bucky could brush off the trigger words, letting them go with a single breath. Years before he’d be able to trust himself around Wakandan citizens, around Steve. Shuri did her best work with Bucky, and he thanked her more times than he could count. She made him start another journal, one that didn’t have a list of names in it that he murdered, and instead a list of reasons why he needed to recover. It was difficult, of course it was, but he did what he was told.

Steve came to see him on a particularly good day after two years. Bucky met him in the field surrounding his home, giving him the softest of smiles, trying not to lose it and start crying. Surprisingly, Steve started first, his bottom lip quivering and his eyebrows drawing together. Bucky held his arm out and let Steve barrel into him, falling into the grass. They held each other tightly, refusing to let the other go and watched the sun set while the goats inspected them from a distance.

Later that night, Bucky fell asleep, sated and sex drunk, with Steve burrowed against his chest in a similar state. It was the happiest he could remember being, having his best guy within his hold again.

Bucky knew Death would hear him if he made a request.

He sent out a single plea to her, requesting that this be his last lifetime. He knew it was time.

*

Because of the serum, it took a very long time for Bucky and Steve to age. In that time, Bucky waited until Steve retired from being Captain America and then drug him around the world. They visited the remote southern towns where they had to sleep in tents, and to the northernmost settlements where they braved the cold and stayed in igloos, and everywhere else in between. In the crowded cities of London and Tokyo, the barren towns of Blooming Grove and Ennis in Texas, Bucky and Steve learned how to function without imminent threat to their lives. They learned how to live.

After six years of traveling and staying in remote locations, Bucky finally took Steve to settle down in an old cottage, right on the cliffs of the sea, a familiar feeling settling in his bones. He told Steve, “This place feels like home to me,” and wasn’t fought with. Steve helped him refurbish the home, even, hanging pictures and mementos on the walls. They tore up the floorboard and replaced it with soft carpet, the bedrooms were turned into guest rooms for their friends to sleep, and the living room was turned into what they remembered their old lives to be, warm and cozy, _home_.

The first time Bucky took Steve down an old path to a bench that overlooked the sea, Steve almost cried, claiming, “I’ve been here before, Buck, I swear I have.”

Bucky felt too many emotions at once, recalling every memory he had of his soulmate, every lifetime in different parts of the world. He yanked Steve down onto the bench and pulled his hand into his lap, closing his eyes against a breeze that pulled strands of hair out of the bun at the base of his neck. “Close your eyes and tell me what you see, Stevie,” he said softly, tracing his thumb over Steve’s knuckles.

Steve sighed and leaned back against the bench, relaxing his shoulders. “I see a wooden home with a dog barking, maybe a chicken somewhere. A family of two, two girls in dresses. I don’t see your face, but I know you’re there.”

Something in Bucky’s heart ached, and his toes curled in his shoes, an ache in his jaw and eyes stinging even with them closed. “What else?”

“I remember being here in this place, with daughters always running around the yard and through the house. Sitting out here with you, talking about dancing with whales and birds against the water – “

Bucky smiled to himself and turned his head towards Steve, tightening his grip on his hand. “I always knew I loved you,” he admitted.

Steve finally opened his eyes and let his face turn, tears streaming down his rosy cheeks. His smile is blinding against the sunshine. He leaned over and took Bucky’s face between his hands, kissing him once, twice, three times. Steve pulled away with an overjoyed hum. “I remember every single lifetime I’ve shared with you, and even the ones without. I remember everything.”

Bucky took Steve inside the cottage and fucked him up against the wall in the living room, pouring all of his love into Steve, gasping with it. He ended up having to knock the rest of the wall down, but only because he still forgot the strength of his body enhanced by the serum.

*

The day Steve found a single silver hair, he and Bucky celebrated, crying and giggling like school children at their revelation. They sat on the couch for a long time and called their friends. Afterward, Bucky cooked them a dinner of wine and steaks. Steve suggested they go to the cliffs to eat. The two of them ate their dinner out on the bench, grinning and watching the sun set, letting the remaining sunshine warm their skin and the sea breeze twirl around them in happily.


End file.
